Cars Are Funny Things
A poem
A poem
Shadows, naked in the fading rays
flitter across my choice
of abode.
Campsites without roofs,
reds, and blues, silver with rust.
And trucks, big ones without wheels.
Not for me hard floors
and yesterday’s news.
Not tonight.
In the morning I may
drive to Vegas,
but for now,
I dim the scrapyard lights
and dream of Jesus.
A high moon rises
gazing down on twisted metal.
Remnants of journeys and
roads yet to be traveled,
and freedom awaits,
no destination but the open road.
A chance to blend
with the broken and forgotten.
The crackle of an open wood fire
releasing dreams.
Come morning I’ll decide
which way to go,
but under the starry sky
I drift along
to the memories
of miles past.